Thunderbirds Ficlets
by Lenle.G
Summary: Collection of fics and ficlets from headcannons and prompts. Family, hurt/comfort, fluff, humor, angst. No slash. Prompts welcome! Latest Update: Super Mini!Drabbles Part 1
1. Return to Earth

Return to Earth

Based on _viralarcadian_'s Tumblr headcannon that John is absolutely useless right after he gets off TB5. Credit to _whydontwejusthaveboth _and _international-rescue_ for bits of ideas. My art of John in glasses is at www . lenleg . tumblr post/117183647520/idea-from-this-x-post-that-john-has-to-wear :)

...

John is so used to feeling a little like Superman; lifting huge objects with his fingertips or somersaulting with a simple tuck and turn, that getting back down to Earth when his rotation finishes, really _screws_ with him. Right after he lands, his biggest problem is that suddenly he can feel the weight of his lips and tongue again he has to change how he is talking; having not realized he was so used to having a weightless tongue. Everyone has to get used to slurry John speak for the first few hours. Gordon calls it 'martian-babble' and insists it's the language he's been using to chat with friendly aliens up there and John squints grumpily at him (his eyeball pressure has yet to return to normal and he's seeing everything blurry, like an out of focus camera - he's got little glasses to correct it but refuses to wear them because he thinks he looks like a dork) and tries to slap him upside the head for it. He misses.

His bone density has lessened and his muscle mass has shrunk, and so, as soon as he's dragged his corpse out of bed and reached blearily for a coffee he's in the gym, or running along the beach with Scott, or in the pool with Gordon, trying to persuade his body to cooperate and hoping he'll stop breathing like an asthmatic _sometime soon_. Carido is hell, but necessary. The calluses on his feet have all but disappeared, as in space there's no friction and pressure from walking to keep them built up. His soles are more than a little sore as they pound over the sand, trying to keep pace with Scott.

He has balance _issues _for a good couple of weeks, wobbling around like he's had several too many to drink, and he has more than one argument with gravity that ends with him on the losing side; face planting the ground. The wobbling about also makes him nauseous, and sometimes it's all he can do to stand, eyes squeezed shut, focusing on keeping the contents of his stomach firmly where it belongs. His brothers, Alan in particular, shoot him sympathetic smiles, they've all done rotations after all, but they're aware that John always feels the post-space adjustment a lot harder than they ever do; he spends more time up there than the rest of them combined.

John also keeps finding things he'd let go of, expecting them to float in zero gravity, smashed on the floor. He tries to push objects across the room to other people, instead of handing them over, and he actually looks surprised when they fall and break. Scott is always super careful to (irritatingly) remind him of this whenever he passes him hot drinks. He doesn't want a repeat of _that one time_ (in which they had both attained shiny pink burn marks in their laps when John had reached out to leave his coca in the air). He drops other things too, pens, books, food, and the brothers have learned to keep an eye on whatever he's holding encase they need to dive in and catch it. There was once an incident with a very young child in which John had forgotten that if he let go of the complaining, wriggling boy, that he wouldn't just _float_. They've kept him firmly away from small children ever since and Gordon had daubed 'keep this man away from babies' across the back of his favorite old NASA t-shirt with Virgil's impastos and John had rained down wobbly astronaut hell on him for that one.

He has to wear a g-suit under his clothes to make sure his blood pressure is getting to his head and his first few showers take place sitting down. John has trouble keeping with Earth time and often can be found sleeping in the middle of the day or making breakfast at midnight. He sleeps incredibly lightly when he does, a result of always being ready to hear and respond to IR calls, and there's a real problem with his family accidentally waking him up when he's trying to get some rest. They're apologetic when they do, and they try their hardest to tiptoe around him and his screwy sleep patterns while he re-adjusts.

The return to Earth food after eating what Alan fondly calls 'cardboard space food' (nutritionally sound cardboard space food, but cardboard space food all the same) feels like heaven, and he has a good excuse not to go near Grandma's cooking because he 'can't eat anything that heavy yet'. That doesn't stop him from pillaging the freezer for Virgil's ice cream stash though. Or from eating all the valentines chocolate Alan gotten before the poor boy had a chance. Or that time the whole pizza Scott had ordered had _mysteriously_ disappeared. John also gets bad dehydration headaches if he didn't take enough salt tablets and drink plenty of water before re-entry, and he finds the only cure for those is curling up in the peaceful dark of his room with all his lights off, huddled in his duvet with the comfort of the faint, light strands of Virgil on the piano, that echo from somewhere in the house.

He's glad to be home though, he thinks, as he shields his eyes from the sunlight and watches his brothers try and push each other in the pool. Alan has the net they use for scooping out leaves as is using it like a cattle prod to force Scott towards the water. He loves space and he loves his stars and he loves doing his bit for International Rescue.

But sometimes he just misses his brothers.


	2. The Goose Incident

The Goose Incident.

Tumblr prompt from thundergirl007: _A goose stows away on Thunderbird Four, which gets loose and runs around the villa. Chaos ensues trying to catch it.  
_

_..._

How the bloody hell it had gotten aboard Thunderbird Four, Gordon has no idea. But there it was; pump and white and _waddling_. With mean, little piggy red eyes that _glare _at him and a sharp, snapping orange beak.

Thunderbird Four was their _underwater_ rescue vehicle, emphasis on the _underwater_ part, and Gordon was more used to picking up poor little fish in his airlock than 300 pound, wailing, vicious white-fronted geese.

And it was _hissing_ at him.

The thing was huddled in the corner, shell shocked from Four's rough journey back to the Island in Thunderbird Two's pod (Virgil had insisted it was _turbulence_ and _not_ his driving), and Gordon would have felt sorry for the feathery pile in the corner, had not it tried, as he approached cautiously with his hands outstretched, to _bite him_.

With a very-manly-thank-you-very-much yelp, the young aquanaut had gotten a charming view of the rows of tiny, serrated _teeth_ within the little dinosaur's beak as it tried to take his fingers off and he had turned tail and fled, screaming, out of his 'bird.

Only to be _chased._

The devil goose (for at this point, the thing must simply be _possessed_) had rushed after him, squawking and flapping and hissing, it's wings spread menacingly like a tiny harbinger of _doom_ as it tries to go for the backs of Gordon's ankles.

Virgil get's about three seconds of Gordon, running, shrieking, past his vision followed by some kind of lumpy white blur, before they've disappearing out of TB2's hanger, heading up towards the villa. He blinks for a second, wondering what the hell that had all been about before he shrugs, turning back to his inspection of Thunderbird 2's left wing. Gordon will be Gordon.

And speaking of, the second youngest Tracy is off like a shot, up, through the secret hatch in their Father's office, still screaming, and out the door. He passes the living room, where Alan and Kayo are watching some kind of sports on the television, and skids past Grandma in the kitchen. He's through the sliding double doors that leads out to the pool before any of them can react.

Scott, who'd been reclining in a deckchair by the pool after the rescue, has less than a minute to form a strangled "What the...?" before there's a huge, white _living_ projectile flying straight for his head. But its target isn't him at all, but Gordon, whose just sprinted past. The thing climbs straight over Scott, squawking and flapping in his face like the eldest Tracy brother is not even there and _oof_; it plants it's slimy, webbed feet right in the middle of his stomach as it does so. "Is that a goose?" he gasps out; the large, feathery bum in his face had been a big clue to that one, and as the thing continues its rampage Scott pulls himself upright, staring, disbelieving, as the bird corners Gordon, hissing angrily. It's looking like it thinks his fingers would be a tasty treat.

"What did you do to it?" Scott yells, still staring as it tries to leap at his brother, jaws snapping.

"I don't know! Bloody thing just wants to kill me!" Gordon howls, nearly toppling into the shrubbery behind him as he tries to evade the honking, violent bird.

"I'll catch it!" comes a voice from behind Scott and he turns to see Alan, waving around the net they use for scooping things out of the pool. Standing quickly to get out of his way, Scott leaps aside as Alan barrels past, swinging the pole wildly. With a grin, Alan plops the net down over the struggling, thrashing bird but he's not expecting how _strong_ the goose is and Alan cries out as he's suddenly being pulled, dragged along the ground no matter how much he digs his heels in. Gordon takes advantage of its distraction by leaping away, dashing round the other side of the pool to put as much distance between him and _that thing_ as possible. He also might be hiding behind Scott, but he'll later deny that vehemently to anyone who asks.

Looking around for it's now missing prey; the demon goose discovers it missing and notices, instead the beautiful, blue expanse of water before it.

Goosy Loosy has discovered _the pool_.

And of course, with strength unbeknown to the poor youngest Tracy, as the goose dives towards the water, Alan, on the other end of the net, gets dragged in with it, fully clothed and hits the water with a loud _splash_.

He surfaces, red faced and spluttering, to the chorus of both his brother's laughing their heads off. So of course, what else was Alan to do, but to pull them in with him?

The goose sticks around after that; lurking in places the brothers least expect it. It lays eggs in the office and tries to eat the curtains in Alan's bedroom. It follows Gordon around for a week, honking and hissing and it scares poor Kayo while she's trying to get her shoes out of the cupboard under the stairs, as it had been hiding in there. It makes a nest under the lid of Virgil's grand piano and it scares the bjeezus out of Scott when it sneaks up on him in the shower, honking angrily at soap suds and wreaking sudden, flappy vengeance on the bottom of his towel.

It only disappears, mysteriously, after their Grandmother threatens to pluck and cook it and the bird decides to make itself scarce.


	3. Blinded

Blinded

Tumblr prompt from _doomed-raven_; Virgil gets temporarily blinded on a rescue but he doesn't tell anyone until he almost gets hurt.

...

Earthquake. 2068. Pacific Ocean tremors, hitting the Shikoku region of Japan and hitting it hard. The buildings there were mostly small wooden houses, nestled amongst farmland and rice fields, and International Rescue's job had been the evacuation of the citizens, getting them safely over to the ferries that would take them across the inland sea to Honshū. It had all been going well, the people cooperative and the buildings remaining stable long enough to get them out. Virgil had been sent to the big local Buddhist temple, to evacuate its occupants. That was when the aftershock hit. Suddenly, everything around Virgil is creaking and groaning, old painted wood splitting as the ground beneath his feet _shudders_ and the temple begins to crumble, all falling masonry and unstable footings. Virgil had stumbled, the floor rocking, and that was when something big and heavy had come crashing down in a slide of debris, smashing into the side of his skull. Everything goes black.

Virgil thinks at first that he's been knocked out, but then he realises that he's a little too _aware _for that. He can feel his body sprawled out in the dirt, and there's a fierce, burning pain radiating out from his left temple which rocketing faster through his skull than Scott in One can through the sky, pounding in time to his heartbeat. If he can still feel _that_ then, he comes to the startling conclusion, he's definitely _not _unconscious. Slowly stretching Virgil feels, disconnectedly, his body righting itself, but his vision has yet to filter back in and everything around him appears pitch black, like night has suddenly descended upon the world. Thunderbird Two's pilot blinks, slowly, trying to shift it, but the blackness doesn't change. He feels nauseous, dizzy and his head is hammering away. A quick self diagnosis reveals blood, warm and wet sliding down his face and, brushing his fingertips lightly over his face, he feels the light curl of his eyelashes and works out that his eyes are definitely open.

Which means he's _blind_.

He considers calling Scott, then and there, and his fingers are halfway to his communicator when he realises how much _smothering _he's going to be in for, for this. Frowning, Virgil decides that his lack of vision is probably only temporary and that he's pretty sure it will come back after a few minutes. He's alright with not calling Scott. He doesn't need his overbearing, worried older brother hovering over him and acting like a broody hen with her chicks. Yeah he'll be able to see again in a minute. He's fine.

Using the back of his hand, Virgil wipes blood from where he can feel it trying to cling to his eyelashes. He feels it smearing across his left cheekbone, hot and sticky. It's been running down from the split in the side of his forehead where whatever it was had slammed into his head. Fumbling for the little medi-pac he has holstered at his hip, Virgil tugs out a gauze pad, unknowingly spilling most of the rest of the kits contents out across the ground as he does so. Oblivious to the items rolling away, Virgil tapes the gauze over the jagged, probably dirty cut to his forehead and he decides that it will probably hold for now. He pointedly tries to ignore his god-awful headache. He's fine.

Its then he begins to hear the screaming. Several voices, out somewhere to his left. Virgil pulls himself to his feet, swaying slightly, disorientated by his complete lack of vision and the pounding in his skull.

_Duty calls._ Those people need his help.

"John." His fingers find purchase on his wrist communicator and he opens a voice-only line up to his brother. John's best off not seeing his face right now. "I can hear people, somewhere near me, think you can get me a heat sensor read out, and point me in the right direction?"

"Sure Virg." John's voice is comfortingly calm and normal. "Here, I've got them. Six readings. A couple of them look small enough to be children, and maybe a teenager. They're to your west, straight ahead, inside the temple. Careful though, the building looks pretty unstable. Better be quick."

"FAB John." Virgil closes the line and reaches out to feel his way blindly towards the building, feeling a little stupid as he does so. His fingertips brush what must be one of the temple walls before him and he follows it along, his digits snagging on crumbling masonry, until he finds a doorframe. Stepping through it his shin strikes something hard and Virgil hisses at it angrily as he stumbles, his palms coming up to steady himself against the _concrete? It feels like concrete_ that was most likely a chunk of the ceiling that has come down. There's a rustle of something, the sound of rocks shifting, and Virgil is hoping that the ceiling is not about to come down on top of him as he makes out what could be footsteps, shuffling, amongst the sound of falling masonry.

"Hello?" he calls out, into the blackness created by his own eyes. "Is someone there?"

There's nothing but the sound of silence and shifting rubble and Virgil wonders for a moment if he imagined it. He goes to take another step, his limbs trying tacitly to find a way around the rubble, scrabbling over stone. He catches the crook of his thumb on a piece of splintered wood and hisses, glad of his thick, protective gloves.

Then a _something _catches on his sleeve, slender _fingers_ wrapping around his wrist and Virgil jumps, a shocked cry tumbling past his lips and his heart thunders in his chest as he jolts away from _the person holding his sleeve_. He can dimly feel his knees trembling from the sudden shock. He almost topples over backwards. _Don't suddenly sneak up on the blind guy, gods_. A voice, very close by, sprouts something in Japanese; the sound quite high but distinctly male. Virgil wonders if this is one of the children - the hand feels quite small.

The boy says something again; high and lilting and tinted with fear, and it's not a phrase Virgil recognises. His Japanese never was very good. The hand comes up again, tugging at his sleeve as if the person wants Virgil to follow him. The fingers are trembling.

Taking a few breaths, Virgil opens the com line to John back up, willing his heart rate to calm down again.

"Virgil?" John's voice asks sharply as he answers the call, wondering why he's been called again so soon.

"I'm in the temple;" Two's Pilot reports, "I've got a boy here and no idea what he's saying."

Instead of answering Virgil, John rattles off something fluent sounding in Japanese and Virgil can't help but smile at where his thinks his wrist communicator is. For all he knows he could be looking straight passed it, grinning like a loon, so he stops it quickly, awaiting a response on whatever this person was saying.

"His name is Akito," John chirps up, making Virgil jump again. Gods, you'd think the number of years he's put up with three little brothers would have prevented anything from catching him off guard. "His family are up ahead, they were praying at the temple. He wants to lead you to them. I think his mother is injured." John starts to say something else to Akito in the boy's native tongue and Virgil gets another sharp tug on his sleeve.

Virgil knows he should probably mention to John that he can't see a dammed thing, but then John would probably sic Scotty on him, and right now he wants _anything_ but that. Plus these people need his help, handicapped or not. He is getting a little worried that his eyes haven't cleared up yet though; he hopes he hasn't done more damage to them than he thinks. His head is _killing_ him.

The hand on his sleeve is leading him through the rubble like a lost sheep and its sheep dog. As a cat person himself, Virgil is not particularly fond of that comparison, but then he stubs his toe and his thoughts go elsewhere; mostly on not swearing in front of children – whether Akito can understand him or not.

More Japanese voices now very close and Virgil can feel a cold breeze, as if a chunk of the ceiling has come down. He finds Akio's small fingers shifting down to wind themselves around his own, still leading him, and then suddenly the voices are crying out and there's a hand at his shoulder and the sound of people crying. In pain or relief he's uncertain. He has no idea if they're all able bodied, or if they will be able to follow him out of here. He's not entirely sure he can remember the way out, let alone if it is safe. His head is still pounding and he's a little _too_ on the dizzy side.

"John," the line is still open, cracking with static, "can you ask them to follow me?"

"Sure Virg." And then John is chattering away in yet more Japanese. Virgil has always been impressed by the number of languages his brother knows; while Virgil can speak a few himself, he's got nothing on John. "You're going to need to support Kaede as she walks," his brother follows up in English, "that break sounds pretty nasty. How does it look?"

"I'm... not sure." Virgil goes for, slowly crouching near where he heard the woman's voice. The soft bump of her hair against his shoulder lets him know he's gone a little far. Cautiously he wraps an arm under her shoulder, letting her arm support itself across his own broad back, and he loops his arm around her waist to pull her upright. She moans pitifully at the movement and he feels a flush of guilt. He should probably have tried to make some kind of brace for her broken leg, but he can hear the building rumbling around him and he doesn't quite trust his own abilities right now. He hopes his eyes clear up soon. He takes a few unsteady steps, finding a rhythm for the both of them to hobble along.

"Virg? Are you ok?" John's voice crackles over the static of the line - edged slightly with what sounds like confusion.

"Yeah, fine why." Virgil's voice is taught. _Did one of these people tell him I can't see? _He frets, still not wanting his brother to know. _It's probably pretty obvious to them... _He chews at his lip as John takes a moment to answer.

"You're going to wrong way." His brother's voice is curt and unimpressed. _Oh._

"Ah, of course I am, sorry." Virgil staggers slightly, his sharp laugh fake and high, "Was rough there for a while." He tries to explain. The little boy, Akito is tugging on his hand again, lacing their fingers together, and Virgil allows himself to be spun around and led back the way they came. He's starting to wonder exactly who is doing the rescuing here.

He tries to follow the fresh flow of air, as the people move around him, following. He gains his bearings back quickly enough though, as he stubs his toe again on what feels like _the exact same _piece of rubble.

When they break out into the fresh air, there's one of the Japanese rescue teams waiting for them, and, directed by John's disembodied voice, they take the six people off his hands. Akito gives his fingers a right squeeze just before he lets go and Virgil grins down at him. His job is done here, John informs him; Scott and Gordon have finished the evacuation in their areas, and the rescue teams can take it from here. Virgil is to get back to Tracy Island ASAP for mission debriefing.

He finds himself climbing into his seat in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two before he can really think about it; his hands coming up automatically to touch over the pre-flight levers. Thunderbird Two hums confidently around him and he smiles. He knows all her controls by touch and he fires the engines up, strapping himself into his seat.

It's only when he is in the air that he remembers the problem. He still_ can't see a thing_. Well he had always joked he could fly his girl blindfolded, and flying her blind he was. Virgil grins to himself, this was easy peasy. Like he does it every day or something. He is confident that he knows his way back to the Island and he can remember their flight pattern from their journey there; it'll be a clear, straight flight over the Hawaiian Islands back to Tracy Island in the South Pacific.

He's doing great, clean sailing, and he must have almost cleared Hawaii far below him, but then the proximity warning starts to go off.

"Virgil!" And that's John's voice, making him jump again. "What the hell are you doing! You're flying straight at a _mountain_." Sudden horror hits Virgil in the chest like a cricket bat to the ribs.

"I'm WHAT?!" Virgil grips the steering column harder, fear bubbling up in his stomach because apparently he's flying straight for a mountain that he can't _see._ He slams his foot down on the retro thrusters, but he's not sure how close he is. He feels Two shudder under him and he hopes he's slowing down. He can't see _anything_. He needs help. "_Oh God_, ok, ok," he admits "I can't see right now, John. I hit my head and my eyes aren't working. At all. Everything is totally black. You're going to have to guide me out of here." He garbles over his words and the proximity warning is getting louder. Is he slowing down or _not? _His foot is definitely on the retros? _Isn't it?_

"You can't _what_?" John is still trying to process, as he watches the blip of Thunderbird Two get dangerously close to the side of a sheer wall of rock.

"See. I'm flying totally blind here." Virgil snarls, his patience wavering and his knuckles white. He begins to blink, heavily and rapidly, trying to clear his vision. He thinks the black edges off a little more into grey rather than black, but that might just be optimism.

"You're flying..." to his credit, John seems to get his composure together pretty quickly. Must be his strict NASA training. That or he's gotten used to the collective idiocy of his four brothers. "Ok, you're going to need to begin banking left. _Now_ Virgil..." Virgil slams his hands against the controls. "Good. Increase your height, your down at only 1600 feet, I'll tell you when to stop. That's it; bank a little further left still." His voice is tight and tense and Virgil can only keep his hands hard on the steering column. His forehead is still protesting its knock loudly. He's going to have one hell of a headache for a few days.

"How high am I?" He braves asking.

"2300 feet, climb a little more Virgil." He does so, pointing Two's nose skywards. He hopes he's cleared the mountains. "Swing out a couple more degrees to your left." John commands, "That's it, you're coming out over the ocean now. Keep a straight course and your ETA will be eleven minutes." The lack of sight is frustrating and Virgil strains, trying to make everything lighter through sheer willpower. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't really work.

"FAB John." Virgil manages to grind out from between his teeth. Blinking again, he thinks the world before him has perhaps started to get lighter. Perhaps. Not enough to help much. "I'm pretty sure I'll be able to land her." He says anyway, because this is _his_ 'bird and he's been landing her for years.

"I'll do my best to guide you in." John says, but his voice is tight. "Scott is going to kill you." He adds and Virgil can only groan because _yeah, doesn't he know it._ "Right, you're at 2100 feet, start decreasing your height. Bank around, still left. Yeah you got it. You really can fly this thing can't you?" Virgil doesn't respond to that. He's not sure if John is being sarcastic or if he's complimenting him. He'd need to see John's face to be sure, and right now that's a problem. "Lower Virgil." John calls and the second eldest Tracy makes the corrections silently. "That's 200 feet; you're coming in to land now. Slow it up. Ok. Fire your landing jets in three, two, one..." Virgil slams his hand against the dial and gets a "That's it Virgil" for his trouble. Two is shaking familiarly around him and he can feel the upward thrust of the jets, slowing him as he sinks down onto what he can only hope is the runway.

He touches down with an awful crash, which takes him completely by surprise. He'd thought he'd have a few more feet to go before runway contact. Evidently _not_. He feels his bird grind to an awful halt on the tarmac. His poor baby screaming as she grinds against the ground.

"Virgil? Virgil? Are you ok?" That's John, still, and Virgil forces out an affirmative through his teeth. He doesn't move though. "You're an idiot." John tells him, and Virgil thinks that he's probably right. He leans his head back against his headrest and takes several deep breaths.

"We're taking you to the ER right _now_." And that sounds an awful lot like Scott when he's _furious_, and there's a big, warm hand on his upper arm, pulling him out of his seat. "Your eyes are all bloodshot."

"Hi Scotty." Virgil grins weakly at him, allowing himself, for not the first time today, to be dragged along. Scott snarls something unintelligible that might have been _whatthegoddamhellwereyouthinking_ or might not have been. Virgil's not really sure.

Against any say Virgil has, he gets flown over to San Francisco and emitted to Accident and Emergency where, after a lot of tests and peering and anxious hovering brothers as his forehead is stitched, Virgil gets told that apparently the blood vessels in his eyes have bled out into the clear, jellylike part of his eyeballs. He's told it should clear up over time with minimal problems, and he's handed a prescription and shooed away with strict instructions not to strain his eyes as they heal.

Which means he has to cope with the full force of hurricane Scott from the moment he gets back home. It's a full two weeks of _hell _before his eyes are back to normal and he gets the full 'what on Earth where you thinking' lecture four times, from each of his brothers. Alan ends his version by whispering that he secretly thought it had all been really cool, but Scott overhears him and knocks him round the head.


	4. Little Alan Drabbles

Little!Alan Drabbles

Little Alan running up to his biggest brother screaming "Scotteeeee! Pick me upp!" as soon as he gets home. Scott, eighteen and newly enlisted in the USAF, drops everything he's carrying and swoops in, making growling noises and tickly finger shapes, to lift a hysterically giggling Alan off his little chubby feet. He swings him up into the air as Alan shrieks with joy and Scott makes silly frowny faces at the little boy, bench-pressing him up and down in the air over his head, and saying "Cor Allie, you've gotten big!" while Alan wriggles around like a little worm, screaming hysterically, his face going increasingly brighter shades of red. The littlest Tracy is unable to get any words out for a good half an hour after Scott plops him down again, but eventually he comes out with "I'm norra big… I'm a Alan!" and then it's Scott who can't speak through his own hysterical laughter.

By the time Scott is 27 and leaving the Air Force, he comes home to find that Alan suddenly thinks he's far too big to be picked up anymore. Scott becomes determined to prove him wrong; because no little brother of his will ever be too big to be picked up and he makes sure they know it by throwing all of them in the pool, one after the other after the other. Even Virgil who stands taller and is broader (and_ heavier_ than) he is by a good couple of inches gets a dunking. The great big splashes they all make are the most satisfying things he's heard in nine whole years.

...

Jeff taught Scott how to shave when he was thirteen years old. Scott is the one who teaches Virgil when he's old enough and Virgil teaches John and it's when John is about to teach Gordon that little Alan, eight (and three-quarters!) and thinking he knows everything, demands that John teaches him too and the three of them end up covered in shaving foam, laughing as Alan tries to, very seriously, shave his non-existent beard with the back of an old toothbrush.

Scott walks in on the three of them and from then on it becomes a routine for the boy's of the Tracy family to shave together, standing in height and age order before the big mirror in John's bathroom, smiling down the line at their littlest. When Alan finally begins to grow stubble and is initiated into the use of an actual razor, it's all four of his big brothers who are there, fighting over whose technique is the best, as they try to teach him.

...

Seventeen year old Virgil helping little Alan to reach the top shelf of the freezer to steal Scott's secret ice cream stash. Later, when Scott finds his treasure missing he declares; "Well it couldn't possibly have been Alan because he can't reach!" and Virgil's face goes through six different shades of amused. Alan, with his tummy full over sugar, is later sick in Virgil's room and Virgil supposes that really serves him right for helping the brat in the first place.

...

Alan, seven years old with both front teeth missing and a noisy, energetic streak a mile wide, teams up with Gordon to prank his big brothers and prank them good. Alan is the distraction, showing Virgil, Scott and John the picture he drew of them all at school and babbling away excitedly, while Gordon sneaks into Scott's room to leave frogs in his shower. He wedges a bag of flour above Virgil's door and smears the rim of John's telescope with thick, black grease. The screams later are _fantastic_. Gordon is faced by his furious brothers; Scott clad in only a towel with shampoo suds all over his head, Virgil covered with powder that seems to have turned his hair and shoulders completely white, and John with a big black ring around one of his eyes and the second youngest Tracy just grins and says it was _all_ Alan idea.

...

Four year old Alan takes a spill off his tricycle and Scott expects him to just bounce up again as he usually does, bubbling and looking to Scott for how mortally wounded he is before he makes his own assessment. Scott will have to kiss whatever it was better, as their Mother would have done, and send him on his way. But Alan doesn't get up with wide, watery blue eyes; he's still and limp on the pavement and fear lances through Scott's chest like he's been physically struck.

"Allie!" Big brother swoops in and scoops Alan up, settling the boy within the protective circle of his arms. At first Scott is terrified at how still Alan is, but then, gradually, their baby's brows scrunch and Alan lets out a single, plaintive wail. A shudder runs through the little boy. Slowly, his face twists, screwing up and Alan begins to cry, big fat tears rolling down his little, pale cheeks. "Shh Allie, Shhh" Scott hushes, worry coloring his tone and his fingers working smooth, broad circles on his brother's back. Alan is still small enough for Scott to settle the little boy on his hip and he does so, tucking Alan's head onto his shoulder and rocking him slightly; gentle and rhythmic like a cradle. "It's going to be ok Sprout, shh." Scott presses a firm, dry kiss to their baby's temple. His brother smells of talcum powder and milk and that underlying warm smell all babies have. "I got you Allie." His hair is baby soft, palest blond and fluffy like the down of a duckling. It tickles Scott's cheek as he gently rests it against the top of Alan's head.

Sniffling, Alan gradually begins to quieten down, his fists are tiny, scrunched balls on a mission to wrangle Scott's tear-dampened T-shirt. Slowly, the toddler seems to decide that he might be alright after all. Alan begins to kick weakly, wriggling in Scott's arms to be let down again and Scotty sets him on his feet and gives him an slow, assessing glance. He's got a little scrape on one of his knees, but Alan is smiling again, and seems none the worse for his little tumble. He's quickly off again, stubby legs whirlwinding on his trike pedals and Scott props his own bike back up with a smile. _I'll keep a closer eye on him in the future_. Scott promises himself.

...

Virgil with the patience of a saint has been trying to teach Allie how to fingerpaint. They end up with more child-friendly non-toxic luminescent paint on each other and the floor and on _Virgil's poor, professional oil canvasses _than they do on the paper that Alan was _supposed_ to be daubing his little stubby fingers on. It gets everywhere, spreading out of the living room and into the kitchen and then beyond. There are purple finger prints on the fridge door and inside, leading up to a now-empty-plate, where John had thought he'd left his last slice of chocolate cake. There are green smudges on Virgil's piano, and propped against it, Gordon's guitar has muddy brownish sludge all over it's strings. There are tiny hand prints all the way up the stairs and the bathroom has suspicious yellow stains that can't be blamed on any other brother. Scott wakes up with a blobby pink mustache. Grandma finds marks on the packet of boiled sweets in her handbag. Jeff has to re-write half a day's worth of paperwork because of a number of mysterious orange blobs. Alan, covered from head to toe in paint, looks so adorable with red smudged across his nose and navy on his knees and such a huge grin (revealing the fact he's got green on his teeth) that no-one really has the heart to tell him off.

...

Gordon trying to teach Alan how to swim and Scott having to dive in and rescue their littlest brother because he thinks Gordon is trying to drown him. Alan climbs back into the water while his brothers are arguing and they turn back to see him bobbing up and down in the shallow end, splashing about, perfectly happy with his new watery world.

...

John gets stung by a wasp and little Alan thinks he's _dying_. He rushes a slightly pale, but grinning John to their Dad screaming about needing an 'ambulwance' and Jeff is quick to reassure his youngest that John is in fact, not dying, and that wasps stings feel a lot better with a little bit of vinegar on them to neutralize the acid content. John ends up with half the bottle tipped over his hand by a very serious six year old and he smells like a fish and chip shop for a week.

...

Scott putting Alan down to bed. He brings him his sippy cup full of warm milk and performs the routine checks under Alan's bed and in his closet for monsters, reassuring the small boy when he finds none. Scott turns the little orange nightlight on just encase and he leaves Alan's 'monster spray' (which is really an old spray bottle full of water) on the his bedside cabinet, within his reach. While he's doing this, Alan is babbling away, sitting upright in bed and his eyes never leave his big brother. Sighing, Scott sits carefully on the side of Alan's bed, letting the mattress dip with his added weight so that Alan rolls towards him and tucks himself into the curve of his hip and Scott has to reassure him that, no, Gordon didn't _really _mean it when he said he wanted to take Alan back to the hospital and exchange him for a goldfish, and that no, Virgil didn't lock his own bedroom door today to keep Alan out, he was just studying for his big test and he didn't want to be disturbed. No it doesn't mean they don't love him.

"_We all love you very much Allie."_ He tucks Alan's covers up around his chin and presses a kiss to his forehead just like their mother used to do, short and sweet and by the time Scott has gotten through half a chapter of the bedtime story, little Alan is curled up, fast asleep, his little fingers ensnaring the hem of Scott's t-shirt in a death grip. Part of Scott regrets having to peel those fingers away and slip out the door. He knows, having watched his other three brothers grow up, that Allie won't want bedtime stories and monster checks forever and that each time he leaves, closing the door softly so the last crack of light fades gradually off Alan's round face, that it might be the last time he gets the chance.

...

Alan has been watching crime dramas on the tele with them all, and now he wants to play judges and juries with his brothers. Scott, declared the oldest and therefore the fuddy-ancient-one-in-the-wig, finds Alan guilty as charged for being "the cutest little brother in the world" and declares that his punishment for such an terrible action will be heinous, unmerciful_ tickling. _Alan's three other big brothers are _more_ than happy to help carry out his sentence.

_..._

Alan blames his desire to sail through space on John. When John was twelve years old and super close to his newest baby brother, little Alan used to beg John to take him stargazing. They'd go every time John was home between school and space cadet camp, and they'd stay in a little tent and toast marshmallows over a campfire while they waited for darkness to descend. They'd stay out, just the two of them, under the stars, and Alan sits in John's lap and makes up funny stories about all the constellations that John can name and John tells him all about his dreams to become an astronaut, just like their Daddy. Which is when Alan decides he wants to be an astronaut too (and fly cool things like spaceships) so he and his big brother can always watch the stars together.

...

My art of John and little!Alan at (without spaces): h t t p_ : / / lenleg . tumblr / post / 117297024200/alan-blames-his-desire-to-sail-through-space-on_

My art of Scott and little!Alan at (without spaces): h t t p_ : / / lenleg . tumblr / post / 117459252480 /as-a-result-of-this-x-post-little-alan-running  
_


	5. On the Brink of Collapse

On the Brink of Collapse

Prompt from doomed-raven: "_Because Virgil is the middle child he's ignored. Lately he's not eating/bottling everything up/keeping quiet because he doesn't think anyone wants to know until he ends up passing out and getting trapped in a collapsing building." (The building sort of ended up as a mineshaft though.)_

_..._

It starts out simple, with Virgil skipping breakfast one morning. No-one comments on it, and Virgil supposes, with a shrug, that his brothers just didn't notice. It's not a big deal anyway. He ends up skipping breakfast again on Sunday and then he finds he just doesn't have time on Monday. He only has a glass of orange juice on Tuesday and then on Wednesday and he stops eating breakfast all together; it wasn't really the most important meal of the day anyway. _Right?_ So it shouldn't be a problem. He's never exactly been a morning person, and so by the time he gets up it's always far too late for breakfast anyway. He doesn't think his brothers will miss him as they sit around the table, flicking cereal at each other and fighting over whose going to get up and make the next round of toast. He's never been much of a fan of breakfast anyway.

But then he finds himself skipping dinner as well, a couple of Fridays later. He's just not very hungry. It had been a long day; a landslide and the attempted rescue of thirteen trapped civilians. All but one of them had survived and would be going home to their families tonight. She'd been a little girl, Scandinavian, blond and scared and by the time Virgil had reached her, her eyes had been wide and empty and blank; her airways full of thick, gritty mud and her expression twisted in a grimace of horror.

Virgil doesn't feel much like facing his own family again after that. Not when that little girl never would. He knows what Scott would say, he'd repeat their Father's favourite mantra, the '_you can't save everyone_' line and Virgil _is_ repeating it, over and over in his head but it doesn't seem to be helping. Instead of finding food, Virgil curls up under his duvet and tugs his headphones over his ears, trying to drown out his Father's voice and that little girl's screams. Suffocating them with songs feels a lot like a child suffocating in a landslide and that leaves Virgil feeling like he's suffocating as well, his chest tight and his cheeks pale.

He goes down for lunch the following day, and finds the family dining table empty of occupants. Grandma, bustling out of the kitchen, tells Virgil to help himself to whatever he would like from the cupboards as she leaves. She tells him that his brothers are all busy this afternoon. As is often the case. Alan has a Formula One test match. Gordon has gone diving. John is on Five. Scott is with Brains in his lab, going over schematics and their Grandma is bringing out a plate of the Lady Penelope's favourite crumpets for them both, and _if you would like some dear they're in the bread bin._

Virgil, with the chance to make his favourite foods and nothing to stop him, instead finds himself staring blankly into the cupboards, eyes listless over the rows of bright, inviting packages. He just doesn't really fancy anything. His stomach feels tight, and he's a little nauseous. There's just not anything he really wants to eat in here. He supposes, briefly that he could make a plate of pasta or fry some chips or just down an entire litre of ice cream and call it a day, but strangely, for once, he doesn't much feel like it. Raiding the cupboards has lost its appeal.

Instead, Virgil downs three glasses of water and goes up to his studio to try and paint. But when he gets there he can't seem to find any inspiration and he finds he's developing a headache. The blank canvas is glaring mockingly at him and his sketchbook has been resting on his lap, open and white, with his pencil hovering pointlessly over the page for a good hour or so. Sighing, Virgil gives up; he just can't seem to think of anything to draw. There's nothing he _wants_ to draw. All he really feels like doing is lying on the floor and staring blankly at the ceiling. It's odd, because he's not even thinking about that poor little girl anymore; he just doesn't feel like doing anything. He's listless, empty. Pointless. His brothers are all busy and none of them are missing him.

Virgil ends up going to bed instead, forgetting the things he could be doing to cheer himself up. He doesn't think of his piano or his notebook full of half-finished painting ideas. He doesn't head out to find Scott and help him with the plans he'd been working on, he doesn't pick up the latest issue of the engineering magazine he'd been enamoured with a couple of days ago, he doesn't go hash out his problems by running himself ragged in the gym. He doesn't think of taking a relaxing shower or making a hot coffee or digging out his cookie stash. In fact, Virgil doesn't do _any_ of the things he would normally, to try and pull himself out of his funk. He doesn't even phone John, as he usually does to check in on his brother after a long day. John is isolated up there, and while his brother likes the quiet, Virgil knows John relies on them to keep him sane. But then, as the evening wears on, John doesn't call him either and Virgil decides he doesn't want to burden his brother with his head full of screaming children anyway. No, it's probably best he doesn't call John. He doesn't want to be a nuisance.

Virgil is asleep when Scott comes to fetch him for dinner. The eldest Tracy boy frowns down at his little brother's pale, drawn face with a touch of concern in his brows. Sighing, Scott decides that Virgil is probably just a bit sleep deprived, and that he could use the rest. He closes the door softly as he leaves, to not disturb him, and Virgil doesn't end up eating that evening either.

Virgil wakes up grumpy, late into the next morning, and he snaps irrationally at poor Alan, when his littlest brother tries to invite him out watch his racing trials. Confused, and a little hurt, Alan goes off on his own, leaving Virgil to stomp back to his room, grizzling like a bear with a sore head, to lock himself in and blast out some of his favourite music, the volume turned up loud enough to disturb the neighbours (who are technically 900 miles away by sea). His stomach hurts, crawling with hunger like there are maggots living in there, wriggling around and eating at his insides, but he still can't think of anything he actually wants to eat. The idea of food is repulsive right now.

Virgil doesn't feel like leaving his room either, he doesn't want to see anyone; doesn't want to _talk_ to anyone. John calls, finally, but Virgil doesn't answer it, letting the communicator ring off instead. John doesn't call again. Virgil curls up in his duvet again, his head tilted back against his headboard and his eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. It's frustrating. He wants to get up and do something but there's nothing much he wants to do. He's angry at nothing, his head throbbing, and he's just so lethargic it's difficult to put any thought into the desire to move.

Then the warning alarm starts to go off, the noise grating and sharp in his ears, and Virgil is up and on his feet before he can even think about what he is doing. The wave of dizziness that hits him is completely unexpected. His head is pounding and he has to stand perfectly still, trying not to topple over, as his vision grey's back in in a burst of fizzling static that blooms across his eyeballs like monochrome fireworks, or television static when the aerial gets knocked. He can hear his pulse, thudding in his ears, overly loud and obnoxious and that irritates Virgil too.

It's a rescue call, obviously, and Virgil slides onto the living room sofa beside Scott to finds he has a hard time concentrating as John talks them through what they're needed for. The mission sounds like the retrieval of two little Belgian boys, who were last seen playing by an old, abandoned mineshaft. Virgil doesn't catch why the authorities there can't deal with the scene, but he pieces together than John is sending him and Scott out, together for once in Thunderbird Two, to scout out the mine and rescue the children.

"...Virgil?" The world catches up with him and Virgil finds himself looking up at Scott, who is frowning sharply at him. "Were you even listening?" He grumbles and Virgil doesn't reply because, no, he's not exactly sure he was. Scott rolls his eyes and tugs him upright, forcing Virgil to ignore the way his vision swims as he does so. Scott gives him a hearty shove between the shoulder blades, directing him towards the chute to Thunderbird Two and Virgil does his best not to stumble as he walks over to it.

He meets Scott, both of them outfitted in International Rescue blues, in Two's cockpit and it takes a bizarre moment for Virgil to remember why they were both there. Mission. Children in a mine. Him and Scott. Virgil's head is still pounding, tight and painful across his forehead. His hands are working over Two's familiar leavers on autopilot, John streaming coordinates into his ear for him to input and the launch sequence, familiar and safe, has been punched in. Then they're shuddering towards the open air, the palm trees flattening as the thruster's fire and they rocket up into the sky.

1600 feet. 2000 feet. 2400 feet. They climb and level out; John's coordinates directing Virgil out from the Southern Pacific, angling over South America and then coasting up the edge of Africa towards France. Virgil is still working on autopilot, ignoring the bizarre trembling of his fingers on the steering column. They feel numb and heavy and not quite right.

They touch down in Belgium and then they're out, everything passing Virgil in a whirl. A panicked mother is crying for them to help her boys and so Scott sends Virgil down the mine to retrieve them. It should be a simple enough job and they don't both need to go down. It takes Virgil a few moments more than it usually would have done to strap himself into the winch harness though and he looks up to see Scott, ready at the winch handle to lower him down, frowning at him.

"I'm ready." Virgil injects a confidence he does not feel into his voice and it looks like it eases Scott's mind a little, as his brother smiles, his dimples tucking into his cheeks.

It's not a very long decent down into the mine, perhaps a little less than double Virgil's own head height, and he unclips himself as he reaches the bottom, looking up at Scott, only about a meter above him. The tunnel seems quite stable, as it slopes down gently into the earth, and the path worms its way down into pitch blackness. The Mother of the children he was looking for had been worried of a cave in though, and these tunnels were practically ancient, so Virgil goes carefully, feeling his way slowly along the black walls. Belatedly, as Virgil strikes his shin against some rubble, he remembers blearily that he should have turned his headlamp on by now, and as he does so the beam illuminates the coal-black tunnels and they trail through the rock. He's a little cold, and his head is still throbbing. Weary, Virgil shakes his head to try and clear it, and he pushes on. His eyelids feel heavy.

He knows he's getting close, as he begins to hear soft, muffled crying, and Virgil calls out a customary "Hello?" into the darkness up ahead. The voices appear to hear him, and the children begin screaming in French, calling for his help. Virgil is glad it's French, which he knows a little bit of, and not Dutch or German; as were possible in Belgium. Virgil stumbles upon the boys several hundred meters ahead of him. They're curled into the black expanse, at an intersection of the tunnels. His head torch illuminates the bigger boy, a ginger headed young man with a sharply pointed chin and a cowlick curl, who is huddled over the littler blond one, his arms tight and protective around his sobbing brother. There's obvious rubble all around them, and it looks as if there has, indeed, been a cave-in. Gently, Virgil pry's the torch from his headlamp and sets it down on a rock, illuminating the tunnel, rather than blinding the kids.

In awkward, halting French, Virgil stoops down and does his best to ask the boy's for their names, the phrases only really half-stringing itself together. He's not sure how much of that is his bad French and how much is his exhaustion. The bigger boy, Lukas apparently, is the one who answers him, gesticulating wildly over his little brother Aaron and babbling away, obviously very concerned for the other child. Virgil can't understand most of what the kid is trying to say, but Aaron's leg is bent at an odd angle and the little boy, perhaps six years old, his sobbing hysterically, clinging to his big brother with his face red and shiny with tears.

"Right then. Scott," Virgil calls into his communicator, ignoring the slight crackle of static that tells of his being underground, "I've found the boy's; one has a broken leg. I'm going to strap it up and bring them out to you." Virgil decides, already stooping down and bringing out his medi-kit.

"F-A-B Virg." Comes the solid, warm reply from Scott's end and Virgil smiles reassuringly at the two boys, rummaging in the medi-kit to find a child sized brace. He doesn't set the bone, the paramedics waiting up top will do a better job of that, but he gently reaches out to strap it up with deft hands that shake a little more around Aaron's ankle than he would have liked them too. He also shoots 5cc of something a little stronger than aspirin into the kid's veins, mostly to stop him from screaming so much. He tries to shoot both children another reassuring smile as he finishes, catching Lucas' fearful expression, but Virgil thinks it probably looks more like a grimace.

"We're coming up Scott." Virgil tells his brother, clipping his light back into place. He goes to find his feet again, but that's the moment his vision totally grey's out, crackling down into static white noise and fuzzy shapes and he topples, dizzy and disorientated against the wall, scraping his palms on the rough stone. He does his best to re-gather all his senses again as fast as he can, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision. Virgil is steadfastly trying to ignore the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and the way his insides feel like someone has crammed a load of broken glass in there. Gathering his head, Virgil tries to reach down and scoop the boy's up, with the intention of settling one on each hip.

What, for big, powerhouse like Virgil, should have been easy proves to be incredibly difficult. It's like all the strength has gone out of his arms and he fumbles, almost dropping little, red headed Lucas. He staggers slightly, re-positioning the boy as the child, all long limbs and pointy elbows, loops his arms around Virgil's neck. Thunderbird Two's pilot looks down into that scared little face, with the bright hair and those blue eyes and he's struck, suddenly, with the thought that this kid looks an awful lot like John had looked when _he_ was twelve.

And if Lucas looks like John, then the littlest boy, Aaron who is pale and blond with the very same big blue eyes, looks so much like their own little Alan used to that Virgil's heart sticks in his throat. He looks just like Alan had done when they pulled him out of the avalanche that claimed their mother's life. It's the same awful, pain-torn expression on his face. Virgil remembers, distantly, that he'd fought with Alan just that morning, and the poor kid had never done anything wrong. He'd never even managed to talk to John.

Having finally positioned Lucas correctly, Virgil does his best to stoop down, his limbs groaning in the process like the branches of an old gnarly tree, and, mindful of the child's broken leg, Virgil settles Aaron on his opposite hip, letting his brother ramble away in French to try and calm him. John knows perfect French.

The first step isn't so bad, but then, by the thirtieth, Virgil's limbs are aching and trembling and he can't work out why he feels so bloody exhausted all of a sudden. It's like all the energy he has ever possessed has just been leeched from his bones. Virgil staggers along the tunnel, the weight of the two, slight boys is horrifyingly almost too much for him. He hasn't been in the gym for almost six days and his limbs feel thin and weak. Swallowing thickly and dryly, Virgil forces himself to take wider steps, one after the other after the other. His breathing is strained and raspy in his chest and his vision is all blurred and wobbly. He feels a little sick. His headache is getting worse and worse. Lucas tucks his head into the curve of Virgil's neck and clings on tightly as they wobble. Aaron's cries sniffle themselves out.

After what feels like forever, staggering along this endless tunnel, suddenly Virgil is being blinded by the glaring circle of the opening he'd come down. It's about a meter in front and above him. Lucas cries out, calling for his mother, who he can hear now calling their names, but little Aaron stays concerningly silent and still the crook of his arm. With a long, painful groan, Virgil's knees give from under him and he almost falls, crumbling to his knees. He doesn't think he can carry both boys out like this, and he finds himself setting Aaron down, the boy quiet and pale, as he leans the chid against the black rock and forces himself back onto his feet. He'll pass Lucas up first.

"Virgil?" Scott is a few meters above him now, and he's watching Virgil stagger along, carrying Lucas with that sharp frown back on his face.

"Take John." Virgil finds his mouth shaping and Scott looks alarmed at that. It sounds like it's supposed to be a joke, but the way Virgil says it has Scott, who is reaching down to take the child from him, certain that it wasn't. Scott notes his little brother's brown eyes are dazed and a little unfocused and they're ringed by dark circles, as Scott seizes Lucas under the armpits and lifts him out of Virgil's trembling arms and easily to safety.

"Virgil?" he calls back down again, after handing the boy with John's ginger kiss curl over to the waiting Belgian paramedics and the children's frantic mother. The kid had appeared unhurt and the medics were just bundling him in a blanket and checking his pupils for shock. _What was taking Virgil?_ Scott frowns. Thunderbird Two's pilot had only set the other boy down a few meters away, but it feels like it's taking him forever to retrieve him. Virgil is just up the tunnel somewhere, momentarily out of sight and Scott finds himself chewing at his bottom lip; an awful habit he'd picked up from his mother when he was young.

Scott, impatient and concerned, is about to call Virgil on his communicator, when he reappears. He's using one hand to brace himself against the tunnel wall, dirt crumbling under his fingers as they slide along, and the child, Aaron, is balance on his opposite hip, tucked into his shoulder. The little boy's fists are curled into the tough, slightly dirty fabric of Virgil's uniform and his forehead is pressed to the man's collarbone, Aaron's little nose touching, cold and smeary against the hollow of his shoulder.

Virgil's face and hair and uniform are dirty, as if he'd fallen. His knees are trembling under him. Scott blanches at the look on his face as Virgil angles it blearily upwards to peer at him.

"Alan's hurt Scotty." And no, that's not a joke either, because while the child might have blue eyes and blond hair, the face shape is all wrong and Virgil's tone is perfectly, desperately serious. His eyes are unfocused and he looks on the brink of collapse. Alarm bells have started to go off in Scott's head.

Virgil, his arms trembling and straining, discovers he can't find the strength to pass the boy up to Scott. He struggles and strains to lift the child, but then Virgil's knees give from under him and they topple, losing the argument with gravity, hitting the ground hard. Virgil's body cushions Aaron's fall and they sprawl in a heap in the dirt.

"Virgil! What the hell is wrong with you?!" Scott shouts down, and Virgil can only angle his head back to stare blearily up at Scott's round face. He can practically see the cogs ticking over inside his eldest brother's head. Scott's eyes widen and his hand comes up to cover his mouth as he _realises_. "Oh _Virgil_." Scott's eyes are so wide and so _hurt _that Virgil almost wants to look away again. "You didn't have any dinner last night. I don't think I've seen you eat in..." Scott sucks in a breath, counting the days in his head. "_Why?_" he chokes out, after a beat. "Virgil?" But Virgil, who does look a little on the skinny side now you mention it, is not answering him; he hasn't moved from his date with the dirt. "Virg?" still no answer and Scott swears softly, he can't quite tell from this vantage point whether or not his brother's eyes are still open.

Quickly clipping himself into the harness winch, Scott sets it to automatic belay, and leans out backwards over the lip of the mineshaft. He begins to slowly walk himself down the crumbling wall, knowing that he's showering the pair below with dirt, but neither makes any sound of complaint before he touches down. He hurries over and crouches by his brother, shaking Virgil's shoulder and softly calling his name. There's no response, Thunderbird Two's pilot has his eyes closed and his head has lolled onto his shoulder. Is it just Scott, or do Virgil's cheekbones seem more prominent? It might just be the shadows of the tunnel, but Scott is suddenly fearfully unsure.

Gently, Scott pries the boy they were _supposed _to be rescuing away from Virgil's unconscious death grip and he finds the child's breathing is stunted, his eyes half lidded. Perhaps shock, perhaps the pain, perhaps something else; Scott needs to get him up top, where the paramedics can see to him.

Lodging Aaron on his own hip, Scott adjusts his climbing rope and finds his first hand hold. He spares a quick, guilty glance at his own brother, but he only hesitates for a second before tightening his grip on the rope and beginning to climb, one handed, using his legs to push himself and Aaron up the slightly-unstable wall. The winch reels in as he goes, aiding them upwards.

He's barely over the edge before Aaron is being taken from his arms and hurried over to the medics. He's having his hand shaken and he's being thanked before he can pull himself away to explain that his job is not done yet and his colleague is still down there, waiting to be pulled out.

"Virgil?" Scott breaks away and calls down and he's relieved to see his brother's head angled upwards, Virgil's brown eyes soft and confused, but open and focused on him.

"Scotty?" Virgil blinks slowly, struggling to regain control over his limbs and he tries to push himself up onto his knees. "Where's the kid?"

"I got him out, he's with the paramedics. Do you think you can get to the winch harness, Virgil? I can pull you up if you clip yourself back on." Scott's voice is soft and concerned and something in Virgil briefly thinks it's nice, to have someone who cares. The harness feels miles away though. "Come on Virg, I know you're tired, you can do it. Come on." Scott is encouraging, meters above him, as he holds the line steady as Virgil grasps wildly for it, fumbling to hook on his carabiner.

And then he's moving, being winched upwards and then Scott's arms are tight around him, feeling the press of his ribs against him with his chin is tucked over the top of Virgil's head. Scott hasn't cradled him like this since he was seven or eight with scuffed knees and gappy front teeth. His big brother's shoulders are shaking and Virgil can only cling on, with numb fingers, and his breath raspy in his chest.

"You _idiot._" Scott growls into his dirty hair, the arms tightening further. "You stupid _idiot_." His tone is angry and protective and Virgil gets the press of Scott's lips against his forehead and Scott's fists bunched in his uniform top as he's dragged upright, Scott slinging Virgil's arm over his shoulders and _heaving _them both until they're standing.

The stagger back to Thunderbird Two is done in silence and Virgil is pushed roughly into his seat. Scott flies them home, which is just as well as Virgil has no idea what he's doing anymore. His stomach is cramping painfully and he's just so tired and then he's being pushed out of his 'bird and bundled up the stairs and forced down on the living room sofa.

Scott stands over him and _glares._

"Scott? Virgil?" And that's Alan, poking his head around the doorframe and Virgil is up, on his feet with his arms around his baby brother before he can stop himself. He's whispering a soft _I'm sorry for snapping at you this morning_ into Alan's hair and the youngest Tracy looks up at him, confused. He'd forgotten about that hours ago.

"Virgil? What's wrong?" Alan calls, because Virgil is swaying like a leaf in the wind and there's no colour in his face and the arms are trembling around him.

"Oh for god's sake Virgil, sit down before you pass out." And that's Scott again, taking him by the upper arm and leading him over to the sofa. Virgil gets plopped down in the seat and Scott turns to his littlest brother. "Alan, I want you to go to the kitchen and bring this idiot a mug of that soup we had last night and a glass of juice. I'm going to call Gordon down; he should have finished his dive by now. Virgil don't you _dare _move from that sofa while we're gone."

Virgil mutters something vaguely affirmative in recognition; he doesn't feel like he could move even if he tried. He can't quite seem to get comfortable on the sofa either, his limbs feel hard against the cushions and his ribs ache. He lets his head fall back against the backrest and he closes his eyes, ignoring the way stars burst in the blackness.

"Virgil? Virgil?" Someone is shaking his shoulder again and Virgil forces his eyes back open. Someone has tucked a blanket over him without him realising and Scott's face is crumpled with concern.

"What's wrong with him?" And that sounds like Gordon, somewhere to his left, but Virgil can't quite seem to put the strength into his neck to turn and look.

"This idiot hasn't eaten anything in... I'm not even sure how many days." Scott growls, ignoring the harsh intakes of breath from both Gordon and Alan behind him. "He downright collapsed on the mission. Those boys could have _died_, Virgil. What if you were down there and couldn't bring them out? What if there had been another cave in? _You_ could have died. This team works on trust and I need to be able to trust that you'll tell me when you're not fit for a job. When you haven't been eating, Virgil." There's no reply from the middle Tracy, not even when Gordon, his face sad and broken, asks him _why_.

"Virgil?" And that's John's voice, crackling with static; someone must have called him. Virgil finally manages a half-shrug, his eyes blank and listless, that he forgets John probably can't see.

"Maybe it's worse than I thought." Scott mutters, leaning in close "How many days _has _it been, Virg?" His fingers are deft on Virgil's cheeks, running over the ridge of his cheekbones and Scott sighs heavily; all the anger going out of him and leaving only the concern. "Here, think you can drink this?" A glass of orange juice is being pressed into Virgil's shaking hand. Alan is hovering, small and pale just inside his peripheral and Virgil feels a pang of guilt for making his youngest brother worry, so he does his best to curl this trembling fingers around the cup and tip it back against his dry lips.

The first mouthful of juice is sharp and clean tasting but it _burns _on the way down, like he's trying to drink molten lava or broken glass. His whole oesophagus feels tight and the slide of liquid against it is physically painful. He can feel the juice pooling in his shrivelled stomach and he groans, throwing his head back and scrunching his eyes shut to will the feeling away. The juice sits in his stomach, heavy and sloshing and Virgil feels a little sick.

"Come on Virgil. Drink it. Don't make me put your stubborn ass on an IV instead." Scott's long fingers are massaging reassuringly at his shoulder blades and his voice is coloured by worry. Alan has climbed up on the sofa next to him and is peering anxiously at his face.

He forces himself to take another mouthful. It's like daggers in his throat, almost impossibly hard to swallow. He chokes slightly, trying not to gag and the feeling takes him as much by surprise as the whole thing has on the rest of them. Virgil forces the juice down, swallowing hard against the mounting pressure in his throat and by the time he's finished the whole glass he feels more than a little nauseous.

And then Scott switches the empty glass out for a hot mug of vegetable soup and a hunk of bread and Virgil _glares_ at him through half lidded eyes. He doesn't want to do this, he just wants to curl up in his duvet and sleep and he'd throw the mug right back at Scott's stupid face if he didn't have little Alan's fingers curled around his wrist, helping him tip the mug up. He'd snapped irrationally at Alan once today already. He's not going to do it again.

The soup is even worse than the juice. His stomach screams at him and Virgil just wants to give it up, he doesn't care. But his brothers are talking him through each sip, gentle and encouraging and Gordon's fingers are combing through his hair and Virgil knows he's been an idiot, just like Scott said.

He only manages three quarters of the mug before his stomach is full and Scott lifts it away with another sigh, setting it down on the sideboard. He loops his arm up, around Virgil's shoulder, pressing his little brother into his side. It doesn't matter than Virgil is taller and broader than him, somehow big brothers prerogative lets Scotty tuck him in and rest his chin on his forehead. Gordon, from behind, loops his arms around Virgil's neck, burying his face in his brother's sharp collarbone and Alan curls up on his other side, his cheek pressed to Virgil's chest.

"Think you're ready to talk to us now, big guy?" And that's John's voice again, reminding him that _all _his brothers were there for him, even if they couldn't be physically and Virgil exhales heavily, almost dislodging Alan as he does so. He owes them an explanation.

"I wasn't really thinking straight." Virgil starts, ignoring the grumbled '_well duh' _from Gordon in his ear. "I just wasn't very hungry. Breakfast was a lot of hassle and then, later, so was lunch and dinner." Scott has tensed up along his left side, his fingers bunching in Virgil's dirty suit.

"How long have you been skipping meals?" That's John talking still; always the calming voice of reason. His tone is steady and comforting, but it's been tainted by the sharp edge of worry.

"A while," Virgil sighs, "but it's only been the last couple of days it's gotten bad. It was after we lost that little girl in Scandinavia. I suppose eating felt like choking on mud." His voice is flat and Virgil feels his brothers arms all tighten around him. "I know I can't go on like this, it just, snuck up on me I guess. I wasn't thinking. I'm just tired and hungry and..."

"Ok Virgil." Scott presses his lips firmly to Virgil's brow. "Ok. I want you to sleep, for a couple of hours, and then we'll wake you for dinner. You can sleep here with all of us hovering or, if you feel up to it, we can help you to your room." Virgil can feel the soft puff of Gordon's breath against his skin and he really doesn't feel up to moving any time soon.

"I... I think I've spent a little too long on my own in my room." He tells them, "If it's not too much trouble, I'll stay here."

"Not at all little brother." Scott smiles and he pulls the blanket up higher around Virgil's shoulders, tucking him in like their mother would have done when he was a boy. "Now close your eyes." Big brother commands and Virgil sinks welcomely into the blackness of unconsciousness. He doesn't even dream.

They wake him in time for tea, and Virgil does his best to choke down the light, unseasoned chicken and noodles he's been made under the watchful eyes of his brothers. They stick close to him, for several days, vigilantly watching is calorie intake, but Virgil finds that for once he doesn't mind all the smothering.

He doesn't get the chance to feel lonely when his brothers are around.

It's not a perfect recovery. He still skips a couple of meals after tough rescues and has a huge, awful fight with Scott when he finds out. But he knows now, properly, that next time something bothers him, he knows he can talk to them.


	6. Disabled Tracy's AU

Disabled Tracy's AU

...

_galaxy-the-girl-wonder_ asked for a fic based on _daniellestitt_'s tumblr post, but you can blame _doyouheartheangrymen_ and _ask-thunderbirdy-1_ for this as well (oh and _yarnaholic82_ for the Astro Boy comment).

_Warning: full steam ahead on the good ship Angst. Review's make my day! 3  
_

...

Scott has no idea what their family had done to the Universe to make it fuck them up so badly. First it had been him; as the eldest he just _had _to do everything first. He'd lost his left arm, below the elbow during his USAF days; when his plane had been shot down under enemy fire. His entire crew had died in the crash and the absence of feeling below his elbow never fails to bring a picture of their blank, empty eyes to mind.

By the time the Thunderbirds were designed, Scott had been using a prosthetic for years; always the best on the market but never quite able to perform the tasks his real arm could have done. Then, one day, Brains sidles up to him with the schematics for a brand new, absolutely incredible prosthetic arm with workable, moving fingers that were to link right into his nervous system and to Scott it feels like gaining a whole new lease of life again. The limb has the ability to do everything (and practically anything) he asks of it; it was built to help him fly Thunderbird One with ease. That said, Scott begins to find that some of Brains' _upgrades_ turn out to be less successful than others. He really has no idea why Brains had thought he'd ever need a built-in-flamethrower for one. And the pop-up-toaster had just been ridiculous. But the arm works well for him, and Scott never complains. His crew had been his friends and he had very nearly been as dead as they were. So he _never _complains.

The prosthetic though, never really feels quite the same as his real arm used to, and sometimes, Scott swears, when he's lying in bed with his eyes closed and his duvet scrunched around him, he can still feel his original arm, phantom fingers curling into his blankets until the stiff, aching pain throbbing away in his elbow reminds him that it is gone.

Gordon's Hydrofoil accident had been next. And what hell_ that_ had been. His spine had been _mashed_. Beyond repair they had said. They told him he'd never walk again. Never _swim _again. His lungs had been torn up and he'd been permanently on a ventilator and a thousand braces for months, clinging to life while his brothers, swallowed by helplessness, could only watch him struggle to keep breathing. Jeff had reached a point where he'd sat down each of his other four son's in turn, looked them seriously in the eye and explained that there was very little chance of their brother ever recovering from this. His quality of life would be horribly diminished if he did pull through and the chance of that happening was very, very slim. He'd asked them all for their blessings, in turn, take Gordon off the ventilator and to let him pass peacefully. Gordon would be the first to see their mother again. It had been the worst decision any of them had ever been asked to make, but they were going to be with each other, together on this; the decision of the whole Tracy family, or not at all.

But then the young man who would eventually build Scott's arm, the then in-his-early-20s Mr. Hackenbacker, had popped up with a crop of dark, messy hair and a terrible stutter, to explain that he thinks he could build young Gordon a new spine, a better spine, that would enable him to walk again. Jeff, at first, thinks the kid is mad, but then Brains shows him the schematics and the billionaire ex-astronaut is actually blown away; the plans are incredible.

Detailed is a series of new spinal implants that would have the flexibility and durability of the existing bones and tissues; it would simply clamp around what was there, repairing and re-aligning the unmendable. Jeff decides that, if Gordon pulls through, this could really give his boy his life back. Hackenbacker asks them all about Gordon and what he would have wanted and, upon being regaled with tales of the talented, funny, incredible swimmer, Brains modifies his design to aid the boy in the water; basing the schematic around a range of aquatic mammals. It takes weeks for Gordon to wake up, and to be strong enough to even consider calling in specialists to do the surgery for the implant, but when Gordon finally opens his eyes, pale and in agony, the second youngest Tracy is quickly grinning and modifying the Brains' plans for his spine. They figure out ways to help his lung capacity in the water and have thoughts on leaving sockets down his back for the attachment of a kind of dorsal fin that would aid him in free diving.

His brothers had always joked about him being part-fish and now he really was. The months of physical therapy are painful and humiliating but Scott, with his one arm and empathetic eyes, is always there, his full flesh and blood hand soft and warm, rubbing circles in the hollow of Gordon's aching back. Jeff invites Brains, newly orphaned and _brilliant,_ to stay with them on their island, and another brother is added to their family.

John is the next of them to become disabled. It happens by accident during NASA training regimes; just when they're about to send him back into space. John had been doing atmospheric training in the pressurization chamber, and the poor man controlling the rate of depressurization had miscalculated, dipping the value too low for his lack of spacesuit. John's skin had felt like it was swelling, the water in his mouth boiling and he was screaming and screaming right up until he lost consciousness. They'd gotten him out of there in less than five minutes, but it was just too late.

Barotrauma, they called it; caused by high pressure air being trapped in his inner ear as they pressure outside it had dropped. It left him partially deaf in both sides, and he's told, in written black and white letters on a little plastic whiteboard, that he'll have to rely on hearing aids for the rest of his life. NASA decides to drop him from the program like a stone; they have no use for a disabled astronaut and John, still reeling from the shock and barotrauma-induced vertigo, is forced to pack his bags as they ship him back to Tracy Island.

When home, John locks himself in his room for three days, unable to hear his brothers hammering on the doors and shouting his name, pleading for him to come out. He's only dragged from of his messily-constructed blanket fort (designed to block the star-studded night sky outside from view) when Alan climbs over the roof and in via his unlatched window. As he's pulled upright, John's vertigo is terrible, he can barely stand on his own and his face is an awful grayish shade of pale so his brothers force him down at the breakfast bar and Scott, scowling, fixes him a bowl of his favorite cereal, bulling him kindly and silently into eating. John finds his taste buds are (temporarily) messed up and that seems to be the final straw for their spaceman, as John breaks down in tears like he hasn't since their mother died. The boys can only stand, shell-shocked, trying to find words of comfort for a brother who can't hear them anyway.

John learns the basics of ALS and BLS within a week and is quick to teach what he can to his brothers so that they can all understand each other again. John tries to pretend that it's just another language he has to learn, just because he _loves _languages and he _can_, and he masters it flawlessly within a month but it's never quite right to shape words with his hands instead of a tongue (which, no matter the language, he can't hear to know if his pronunciation is correct anyway). Books and nerdiness come naturally to John, but he just doesn't appreciate the strange, buzzing silence of words on a page like he used to, as he reads through the sign language guides. His specially calibrated hearing aids come in the post a seven and a half weeks later and John finds himself crying again when he finally hears his brother's voices once more. By the time he's an International Rescue operative, they've worked out how to link him up to Five's systems, streaming calls directly into his ears and John loves his job, not only for his chance to be in space again, to be _helpful_, but for his ability to just simply sit and _listen_.

Little Alan is the next in the line of fire, so to speak. It had been a terrible F1 crash, just after they started up IR, and his brothers had watched in horror, live from the track sidelines in Melbourne, as it had happened. Later when every channel is showing re-runs of their little brother's racecar flipping over and smashing into a three vehicle pileup, Virgil is the one who puts his fist through the screen. Their baby brother is in a coma, his legs a tangled, bloody mess and his head in bandages. By the time Alan wakes, bleary and drugged up, he's the only one who doesn't know he's been paralyzed from the waist down. His legs will no longer obey the signals from his brain.

The youngest Tracy is completely shattered when the doctors give him the news; he can't run on the beach with Scott or swim with Gordon and he'll never again stand straight and proud and grinning on the F1 podium; the medal around his neck. Their Dad disappears right in the middle of it all, he just _fails_ to show up in Alan's hospital room and that freaks the poor kid out almost as much as the loss of feeling in his legs as his panicking brothers are torn between searching for their Father and helping their littlest brother.

Surprisingly, it's not Brains this time who comes up with the solution for Alan's legs, but Virgil. He's got plans for micro rockets from his days as an engineer and he 'borrows' the schematics for Scott's arm and Gordon's spine and modifies them into a pair of sort of long, metallic leg braces for Alan. They look a bit like chunky over-the knee Doc Martin's and when Virgil paints them red for Alan, Gordon grins and calls him '_Astro-boy_'. The look on Alan's little face when he first fires up the booster rockets Virgil has built into the soles is priceless. They were designed for maneuverability in space but are mostly used for incredible amounts on fun and mischief while down on Earth, where he can hover for small amounts of time and drop things on peoples heads as much as he likes. He's careful to never to do it to John though. Or at least, not when the astronaut doesn't hear him coming.

Virgil is quiet, and careful not to jinx his luck as the only one of them to have not been injured, but of course, the Universe hates the Tracy family, and his accident is equally crippling. His is the only accident to happen on a rescue. A building comes down with him in it and is Scott screaming in his ear, over his com-line as both of Virgil's arms are crushed under rubble; obliterated just as he was reaching out to save someone. She had been a small child with wide, terrified blue eyes and blood running from her forehead, staining her blond hair. That little girl doesn't make it out alive, and Virgil almost doesn't either.

They amputate both his arms and while Virgil is still screaming Brains just shakes his head and goes back to the drawing board. He designs Virgil's new arms so that the limbs can lift, and withstand, incredible amounts of weight. He makes them extra steady, with a finely tuned grip so that Virgil can still hold anything from his smallest paintbrush to a half tonne of concrete and reinforced steel; just like the one that cost him his arms in the first place.

Virgil is quick to adapt to and wear them but he finds he_ hates_ not being able to feel the piano keys under his fingers, or the fur of a kitten or the smooth wooden grip of his paintbrush. He gets into the habit of using his cheek instead, or the firm press of his lips against said cat's little fluffy head. He's embarrassed about it at first, but then Little Alan takes a tumble in his rocket boots and Virgil finds himself encircling his little brother in a metal-armed hug and smushing his face into the top of Alan's head. Virgil closes his eyes and takes a moment to just breathe and feel the soft, thin strands of his brothers sandy hair under his cheek. When he opens his eyes again, Scott, sitting opposite, has such an expression of understanding on his face, as Virgil breaks away to tighten the screws at Alan's ankles, that it doesn't seem to matter anymore.


	7. That Looks Like it Hurts

That Looks Like it Hurts

_Slightly 2004 movie based but slightly not, so can be read as anything really. Alan and big brother John, because we always see Protective!Mother hen Scotty and so why not John instead for a change. :)_

_..._

John was the one Alan called for _everything_; for science homework, for friend troubles, for complaints about Warton's appalling cafeteria food ("Potatoes John. There are only so many potatoes I can take in a week.") Alan had called John before he'd even called Dad that time he made the track team and he'd been the first to know all about the cute girl who bought Alan candy last Valentines. Listening was John's job, after all. It was what he was good at. So, John muses, his eyes fixed on his brother's poor, battered face, why couldn't Alan have told him _before _about the bullying?

John had called Alan up at school, intending to give him back the copy of his chemistry essay, which John had happily checked over for his little brother. It was a straight A piece, without John's help, and he was ready to tell Alan how his paragraph on covalent bonds was fantastically accurate. But then Alan answers the call and John finds _this_.

There's a bruise, purpled and ugly, smeared across one of Alan's cheekbones, fading up into a black eye in a ridge of blotchy blues and greens. It wasn't a recent bruise; it's at least a couple of days old and is fading out to yellow at the edges, but he has a matching one at his jaw line that one looks _fresh_. Like he's been hit sometime within the last hour. There's more bruising across Alan's collar bone, visible where his t-shirt is scrumpled and the neckline hangs a little low; like the fibres of the fabric have been stretched and damaged when someone has grabbed a hold of it and pulled it's wearer off his feet. Alan's lip is split and the boy swipes at it petulantly, wiping the blood away. He's avoiding John's eyes, glancing down somewhere to his left, his fine blond hair rumpled and dirty. _Someone pushed him in the dirt_. John feels his anger mounting. _Someone hit his fourteen year old baby brother and pushed him in the dirt_.

"I'm going to _kill them_." John growls and that provokes a reaction – Alan's head jerks up, his eyes wide and watery blue; shocked, because threatening bodily harm is more Scott's forte or sometimes Virgil or Gordon, but never _John_. Peaceful, calm, quiet John with his stargazing books and boundless patience. But John looks _furious_. "Who did it?" he all but snarls and that has Alan dropping his head again, his eyes disappearing behind the mop of his fringe.

"Its fine John," Alan murmurs, the small words welling beads of blood up from his cracked lip, "I just need my chemistry essay back, thanks."

"Like hell it is, kid." John all but growls, because it's anything but _fine_, and then John's face softens off, his chest tight with the desire to wrap Alan in his arms and the knowledge that he's thousands of miles away, so can't. "That looks like it hurts." John says after a moment and his voice is kind and gentle and Alan, still not meeting his eyes, chokes out a short laugh.

"A bit." He concedes, then amends; "A lot." His hand comes up again, trying to brush blood away from his lip and he succeeds in smearing it even further. His tongue pokes out to lick it away and Alan winces at the bitter taste.

"Anything broken?" John's voice is thick with concern and Alan's face slowly takes on a reddish colour, high on his cheekbones.

"Nah, they're big and stupid but not that stupid." Alan admits, his tone surly and miserable, "Just bruises really but… they got my maths homework too. I'm in trouble with Miss Wright… John, you checked my answers and explained that algebra thing so… I was wondering if you still have a copy? I need to get it to her in the morning and I don't much want to start from scratch…"

"Yeah I still have it saved, Sprout." The purely wretched expression on Alan's face has John's fingers flying over his computer screen and bringing up the file. He hits 'send' and there's the steady bleep from Alan's communicator as he receives it.

There's a moment of slightly awkward silence between them.

"You won't tell Dad will you?" Alan says, eventually, his eyes sharp under that mop he calls a fringe. "Or Scotty? They'll freak and… and I'm dealing with it John, I'm fine, you can't…"

"They'd want to know Alan." John sighs; he should have guessed his baby brother was going to be stubborn over the whole thing. "We can help you, you know. Or at least you should tell your teachers, they'd want to…"

"I tried." Alan's voice is very small, and the grainy hologram shows his shoulders shaking. "Mr Wainwright just called it _boys roughhousing _and gave me a detention."

"Oh Allie." John's fingers come up as if he's trying to reach through the screen to get to Alan. "I'm sorry." Because adults in positions of responsibility are_ not _supposed to fail children like that. Alan just shrugs, his shoulders looking stiff and painful.

"I'm ok John. It's only another seven weeks and then I'll be home for summer." But Alan is still avoiding his eyes and that bruise looks _nasty_. "Hey, when will you be back?" And John knows a diversionary tactic when he sees one, "There's going to be a comet shower, mid August, and if your home we could watch it together."

"Sure Alan." John knows about the comets; in fact he was going to suggest it himself, "We'll do all you can eat pizza and spend a night with our telescopes under the stars."

"Sounds great." His littlest brother whispers, then "I miss you guys. I just want to go home." Alan crumbles and John sighs softly.

"We all miss you too, Sprout. But you know how important school is. No shortcuts." John smiles, "You can't carry on with those boys picking on you though."

"I know." Alan exhales heavily. "But I just don't know what to do about it." He looks so tired and miserable on the other end of the video call; his forehead scrunched and his eyes shadowed.

"We could talk to Dad." John suggests softly, "I'll back you up. He can ring the school and report those boys for you." A ghost of a smile crosses Alan's face at that. As much as he doesn't want to talk to his father about this; everyone listens to Jeff Tracy. "Wharton has a strict anti-bullying policy, Alan. He'll take it straight to the headmaster. They'll probably get expelled for misconduct. Hurting other students is completely unacceptable."

"And you'd stay on the line?" Alan double checks, small and nervous and John nods, his smile warm and friendly. He's going nowhere, not when his baby brother needs him. "Ok then." Alan concedes and does his best to hide the trembling of his hands.

It turns out, later, that the combined forces of Jeff and Scott Tracy (the latter had been in his father's study when Alan and John had called) are enough to send the headmaster into full panic mode. The man, Mr Wainwright, is thin, weedy and _spineless_ and he tries to stammer out that _boys will be boys_ and that_ these kids are just playing_ but then he freaks out completely under the double glares of the billionaire ex-astronaut and his eldest son and is quick to rescind Alan's detention and to expel the boy's responsible for his beating.

They bring Alan home for the weekend anyway and John makes sure he's free to be there as well and they stay up, late into the night as John, his arm slung over his baby brother's shoulders, frowns worriedly at the dark smudges of bruises still visible on Alan's still-round, stubble-less face until the boy distracts him by pointing up, into the cosmos and remarking on just how_ beautiful _the stars look tonight. John cranes his neck back, tightens his grip on his brother and has to agree.

The sky really is_ shining _and no-one will ever hurt his little brother again.

Not while he's about.


	8. Photograph

Photograph

_Thundergirl007_ had a head cannon that all the boys have the same photo of their family, from when they were all together, and they look at it to remember how glad they are to have four brothers.

...

Grandma Tracy was the one who had taken the photo during a warm, family day out in the English countryside. It had been not four months before the fateful ski trip that had claimed their Mother's life and the boys all have relaxed, charming smiles; unaware of the pain and horror to come. For a posed photograph of all of them, it's surprisingly candid; their Mother's arms are curled around little Alan, who looks befuddled, as if he was not quite aware it was being taken. The smile on their Father's face is warm and kind and he's got one arm around Gordon's back, supporting his second youngest as he wobbles on the fence, and the other is pressed to the hollow of Scott's back, urging the child's posture straighter. Little John, with his ginger cowlick, is in the middle, hardly coming up to their fathers hip height and a round faced Virgil is leaning back against his mothers knee, his hands clasped smartly behind him. Their Dad had printed copies for all of them, just after Lucille had passed away, and the boys had kept them close ever since.

Alan had cursed _fantastically _(and received a clip round the ear from Scott) when he had gotten motor grease on his copy; blobby black fingerprints that smudged up the paper edges. It's creased and folded and always used to get tucked into Alan's back pocket whenever he got into a race car. Part of him always told himself it was there for luck, but Alan knew full well he really just wanted an excuse to keep them close. He used to forget he'd put it in there though, when greeted by the sight of his actual four big brothers; cheering from the sidelines. Alan knows how lucky he is to have them there, in person, and that they're not just preserved on the paper and in poor, blurry memories like their mother is.

Gordon used to keep his photo taped to the inside door of his swimming locker, wherever he was going to be competing. He used to always take a moment to just stare at it, psyching himself up to get into the water and to go for the gold. It got wet once, and the protective film that covers the picture has started to peel back at the edges, but Gordon never exchanges it for a freshly-printed copy of the original. After the hydrofoil accident, one of his brothers had taped it by his bedside, a reminder that all of them loved him so much, and that they needed him to recover just as much as he needed to himself. When things felt impossible, when he was fighting his way to his feet only to fall down again and again and again, it was that photo that made him keep _trying_ to get back up once more, and to _stand_.

John keeps his copy up on Five, and he's the only (sensible) one who'd managed to frame it. It's held in pristine condition in the little silver box frame that's balanced on his bookshelf, tucked between _Mission to Mars _by Buzz Aldrin and a battered old _Star Trek _novel with Spock's face solemn on the peeling cover. There are fingerprints on the glass, and John uses it to remind himself that's he's not alone in this; no matter how isolated he sometimes feels, being hundreds of miles away from his brothers and hearing, day in day out, the screams of people who need their help.

Virgil has Scott's copy and Scott has Virgil's. Neither are quite sure when the switch was made, but they find they don't mind having each others. Both are crumpled and loved and have little paint splatters and coffee stains on from when Virgil had re-worked the photo into an oil painting for their father's fiftieth birthday. He's got sketches and sketches he's done from studying it, trying to getting the curve of little Alan's chubby face just right, and to capture the dorky flick in the front of Scott's hair. He'd spent hours pouring over his Mother's eyes, sketching and re-sketching because he can't quite seem to remember the way they used to look and he's never really sure it's ever right.

Scott keeps his (or maybe it was Virgil's) copy in his wallet, tucked into the plastic ID holder. It's what he clung to in his USAF days, when his plane went down under enemy fire and he'd been holed up in rival territory for three days, his fingers curling around the thin, fragile paper and his hands shaking with the need to get home to see them, to throw his arms around them for real and to tell his little brothers they mean more to him than anything in the world. That for a Tracy, family is everything. When the bombs have stopped falling all around him and he's been picked up by an evac team, the first thing he does, limping out of his hospital room, is to curl his arms around each waiting brother in turn. The photo gets crushed into Virgil's broad back and Scott's shoulders shake and his brothers have no real words with which to comfort him but it doesn't stop them from trying.

Jeff Tracy, the last time he'd been seen by the boys, had had the photo miniaturized and held in a keychain and their Father used to glance at it every time he went to open whichever door he was going through. The boys wonder, later, if he'd glanced at it when he was opening the door to leave them for the last time; the day he went missing.


	9. Waking Nightmares

Waking Nightmares

_doyouheartheangrymen: "What if the Hood did a Scarlet Witch style thing and makes all the boys see their worst fear then what would they see?"_

...

Scott is on a plane, one of the ones from his days in the USAF, and they're crashing down, spiraling uncontrollably towards enemy territory and as hard as he wrenches back the steering column, Scott just can't seem to pull the aircraft up again. Flight gear is shot. He can't level her out. If they impact with the ground, Scott knows there's almost no hope of survival in a crash like that. And he knows because it's not a dream; it's a memory. But when he looks up, expecting to see the faces of all the good men and women he'd lost back then, he's met instead by the faces of his four brothers, round and pale and terrified. They look back at him with dead, liquid eyes and blood splattered across their faces. Little Alan is reaching a corpse's hand towards him and John's head is bent back at an angle that's not possible on anyone still living.

For Virgil, its finding he's not strong enough. The building is coming down around him and he's trying and trying to lift rubble off of a child, a faceless little girl with bloodied blond hair. She's not screaming, but Virgil doesn't ever even realize she's already dead. He just keeps trying, keeps heaving, the Jaws of Life straining and failing him and his own limbs useless under the weight of the dream. International Rescue will never be strong enough. The little girl morphs into a larger figure, a man, and suddenly it's his Father he's failing to save. His Father with blood bubbling from his lips and his eyes cold and blank and Jeff Tracy's last words to his son are how he's _failed_ and Virgil is screaming without even knowing he's doing it, trying desperately to rip the rubble away, to save his Father. His hands, suddenly huge and bare, tear into concrete, crushing it between his fingers with the sudden flood of strength in his arms, like it's as fragile as paper. What he doesn't realize until it's too late, is that along with the concrete and steel and his Father's corpse is torn in two, by his own hands. Blood covered and still screaming, Virgil realizes it's not only his lack of strength he fears - but having too much strength; too much power and the fact that with that power failure is _not _an option. For Virgil it's the realization he's something _too_ powerful. Something monstrous.

One minute John is looking into those slitted, yellow eyes and the next he is dying in space. The depressurization has burnt out his lungs and his skin is swelling and the water in his mouth feels like its boiling. There's no oxygen, nothing to _breathe _and everything is tunneling in. He can't even see the stars. If he has to die in space, he needs to see his stars. He's aware of his lips moving soundlessly, rubbery and swollen and he just needs someone, anyone to hear him. He's always the one listening. Why is there no-one there to listen to him? Someone needs to bring his body back to Earth. When he's gone. He needs to tell them to bring his body home. John can't bear the thought of just drifting as space junk, forever.

Gordon finds himself drowning; and that takes him completely by surprise. The ocean is his second home and if he could live in it he would, but right now theirs water in his lungs and something heavy pressing him down, down, down. An iron band is tightening around his chest and there's no breath left in him to even send bubbles towards the surface. Everything around him is crushing down and in on him and the light is fading, getting darker and darker and colder outside the little yellow view of his scuba mask. It feels like coiling tentacles are wrapping around him, dragging him down into the lair of the bottom dwellers. The monsters of the deep. There's a slow, building pressure in his lower back and spine, growing and burning through him and Gordon recognizes it, with horrified familiarity, as the aftermath of his Hydrofoil accident. Theirs ice in his veins and he can't close his eyes. He's forced to watch as he drowns. Unable to even scream to stop it.

Alan just gets the thump of snow and the flash of blood. Crimson, almost black trails over eye-straining white. There are limp fingers curled into the back of his jacket. He doesn't need more than that to know it's his mother's death, all over again. He's been having that nightmare since he was six. The avalanche, the snow fall, the sound of his mothers back breaking. The sound of her scream. The splatters of her blood across his face. It's the clearest memory he has and it's as familiar to him as breathing.

…

In the aftermath. Scott can't meet their eyes. Virgil won't touch anyone, won't let anyone close and John locks himself in his room, his breathing sharp and anxious like he's trying to fight his way out of a panic attack. Alone inside, John keeps his face pressed to the glass of his window, his eyes fixed on the stars to reassure himself they're all still there. Gordon doesn't go near the pool. Alan, surprisingly to all of them, is the only one who seems unaffected. When the boys ask _what did he see_? and _is he ok?_ and Alan fixes each of them with a hard look in turn and explains how he's been fighting _that dream _for the past eleven years. And it's not likely to go away anytime soon.

They all have their nightmares; their worst fears. It's bridging them, overcoming them, which will make them _stronger _than the Hood.

…

**Bonus:**

Kayo gets a discombobulated sensation of fingers around her throat that's then slammed out with the realization that it's not her throat at all and that it's her own fingers doing the tightening. She remembers lunging for the Hood, trying to attack him and now she's choking him, her fingers cruel and tight over her uncle's esophagus. There's a shadow on her shoulder and she looks up, gasping on the realization that the man stood _behind her_ is the Hood, and the one she's choking, the man struggling weakly under her grip, his pulse fluttering out against her fingertips and his breath rasping in his throat, is _her own father_. With a sharp scream she pulls away and her father's body topples limply into the dirt. Onto a pile of bodies. A pile of bodies of _people she's killed_. Her family she's betrayed. Scott's eyes are upturned to the sky, cold and lifeless and Virgil has blood matted down the side of his face. There are dark shapes in the sky; carrion coming to feast on her brothers, and the Hood is laughing and laughing as they peck out little Alan's eyes, Kayo flapping and screaming but they just _won't stop_. "You killed them all, Tanusha." The Hood laughs at her. "How sad."

Jeff gets his dream as his plane is going down. Crashing towards the ocean. It starts as a whisper in his ear that sounds uncomfortably like his Scotty; the voice high and childish like his son was eleven with scraped knees and gappy teeth all over again. _How could you._ Scott whispers. _I thought you loved us, Daddy._ Theirs the sound of muffled crying and the view before him, the view screen with the ocean rearing up, fizzles out and then young Gordon is tugging at his knee and asking_ when he'll be home. Does he have work late tonight? When will you be home Daddy_. Theirs the sound of crying, high and sharp and his baby Alan's little face is all red and scrunched as he bawls and there's nothing Jeff can do to quieten him. _Are you coming back?_ John is asking and then there's Virgil, running to show his Daddy a painting he did at school, but Jeff Tracy has been swallowed by the ocean. He doesn't manage to make it home.


	10. Mini Drabbles - Part 1

Mini!Drabbles - Part One

_Music_

Virgil has played the piano for years and Gordon has his guitar and they've always enjoyed playing together; with Gordon perched on the edge of the piano stool and Virgil's fingers practically floating over the key's - he's feeling the music more than actually playing it. Neither of them can really sing in tune that well though, despite both of them attempting it, so they usually just play in harmony, letting the notes speak the words for them.

But then John, tucked up in the corner of the room with a book, starts humming along in _perfect pitch_ as he turns the pages, and they both have to stop and stare at him. Virgil's fingers sliding off they keys with a horrible _kerplunk _of shock and Gordon painfully catching his little finger on the E string with a scraping _twang_. John looks up, startled at the sudden lack of music, and finds both of his brothers watching him, befuddled. John's face goes bright red and he mumbles out a '_what?'_ but it's too late and they're _grinning _at him in a way John is really not sure he likes and that he knows probably spells _trouble_ and then he's got a brother either side of him, under his arms, hauling him to his feet before he's plonked down in front of the sheet music, slid a copy of the lyrics and is bullied kindly into _singing for them._

Scott and Alan, downstairs, exchange a confused look at the sounds of song floating from the music room. When they go to investigate, they find John, his face boiled-lobster red with his mouth open and actual _melody_ coming out of it. When the eldest and youngest Tracy's break out laughing, it's Virgil who hits them both around the head with his precious sheet music all rolled up and it's Gordon who growls protectively and put himself between a furiously blushing John and their howling brothers. John has never sung in front of anyone before, it's usually just him, up on five on his own, humming in the dark before bed. It's usually only the stars who listen, and John, thinking his brothers have been having him on, goes to leave, upset, but Scott catches him arm and pulls him back, gentle to reassure that they are surprised, yes, but very impressed.

Later though, when they've gotten over the fact that John, who they've never heard so much of a peep in the shower out of, can_ sing_, the boys settle down in the music room, Scott and Alan happy to provide a gently clapped rhythm for their brothers as they discover that actually, they all have a shared interest here.

…

_"__Okay but imagine Virgil playing Enjolras in his school's production of Les Miserables and when he gets shot at the barricades little Alan starts crying because he's not old enough to understand that his brother isn't dead and it's all pretend but when Virgil comes back on stage for the curtain call Alan runs on stage to hug him because he isn't dead and instead of just ignoring him or getting him to go away Virgil just picks him and keeps singing without breaking character and it's the cutest thing ever."_ _\- doyouheartheangrymen_

but but but but THINK ABOUT LITTLE ALAN AS **_GAVROCHE_**

Scott as Grantaire, John as Courfeyrac, Gordon as Combeferre and they're all put through watching their littlest brother pretend to die first, perched on a wobbly DIY barricade made of upturned chairs and tables and the horror in their reactions is so convincing because it's _genuine_. Little Alan, when he's done being still and pretending to be dead and trying not to giggle as he gets dragged offstage, is watching from the sidelines as his brothers are 'shot' and all the blood drains from his little face.

Alan forgets, in that moment, that it's just a play and they're all just acting because those bullet wounds suddenly look too dam realistic and there's red blood on white tunics and it looks too much like red blood on white snow and Alan, terrified his brothers are as dead as their mother is, panics and tries to throws himself back onto the stage, shouting and sobbing, but one of the stage hands has looped an arm around his waist and is holding him back while he screams and cries and struggles. Luckily the music is too loud for the audience to hear him, but his brothers do loud and clear and it takes every ounce of will power Scott has left in him to not leap up and ruin the play just to run to Alan.

They perform the end of the play, gritting their teeth and singing through them for the final number, but the audience are left wondering, in the finale when they're all there and bowing graciously, why little Gavroche is cradled in Grantaire's arms; sobbing softly. The older boy has tucked the kid's head onto his shoulder and is whispering soft, comforting words for only the child to hear. Grantaire presses his lips to the top of Gavroche's sandy head and afterwards, during nibbles and small talk, everyone happily agrees it had been adorable, even if they didn't understand why it was necessary.

(Bonus: Jeff as Val Jean, Lady P. as Fantine and Kayo/Tintin as Eponine.)

…

_"__There is a small notebook that Virgil keeps under his pillow, where he writes down the name and age of everybody International Rescue save. Every single person from every single rescue they've ever carried out, even the ones where he wasn't needed. It takes him longer to do after missions where larger groups of people are saved, but he does it anyway. Almost instinctively. He flips through the book every single night before bed. And when feeling anxious, depressed, or upset, he'll read it more closely. To remind himself every day that no matter how scared he is for himself or his brothers when they launch, there are already hundreds, nearly thousands of people who are still alive because of them. And it never fails to give him the courage to carry on._" _\- eight-bit-brony_

When it's a close call for his brothers, and they're the ones that need saving, Virgil writes their names down in the book as well. As Virgil curls up in his duvet to thumb through the worn pages, his fingertips linger over Scott, John, Gordon and Alan, who are in the book far more than they ever should rightfully be. Virgil has to close his eyes and pray that next time, next time it's a bit too close a call, that his brother's names will be in here again. Because those who don't make it into the book are the ones they don't manage to rescue, and Virgil can't stand the thought of the day his brothers don't make it home.

He does little sketches to accompany the names sometimes. Every time there was an interesting face or a hopeful smile or a shapely jaw line that just caught the light in the right way. There's sketches of his brothers in uniform too; Alan's arms around an old ladies shoulders and Scott ruffling the hair of a small boy, with the most fantastic grins on both their faces. There's a doodle of Gordon, scowling and wiping sweat from his forehead as he glares out his view screen and there's a candid watercolor of John, turned slightly away from him with a distracted, far off look in his eyes as he stares up into a star-studded sky.

…

_"John: __did you always want to be an astronaut? Or did something or one encourage you to do it?" - Anon_

"Oh yeah, I've _always _wanted to be an astronaut. Ever since I was a dorky little kid with those gappy teeth I used to have and a space-ship print duvet. It was all Dads fault really. NASA had a 'bring your enterprising space-orientated offspring to work reunion day' when I was about six and Scott had had Air Force Cadet camp and Virg was still chewing on building blocks under Grandma's watchful eye, so I went with just Dad and Mum.

And it was _amazing_. Truly. There was a live stream of images from the old Hubble Space Telescope and we sat on beanbags and stared up into the projection field, the stars stuck in the air all around us; moving, _glowing_. I was enthralled. Thought it was just _magical_. I was perched in Mum's lap, listening in to Dad chatting with old work colleagues about his last lunar landing and I think that was probably when little me decided I wanted to get up there amongst the stars for real, just like he'd done.

We got a tour of the latest training facilities, the pressurization chambers and the hazmat labs and the launch sites, and I was determined that as soon as I was old enough I'd enroll on their junior astronaut program and that I'd be in space by the time I was twenty. Dad bought me a planetarium from the gift shop and from then on I was out on the roof whenever I could get away with it, with my telescope, pinpointing my position in the cosmos.

I was posted on the United Word Federation's manned satellite only two months after I turned eighteen. I first stepped aboard my Thunderbird when I was twenty five.

I go back to visit NASA every year and take Alan with me. He likes to embarrass me by pointing out my books in the gift shop, right next to the little plastic planetariums."

…

_Dangerous_

Rescues can get scary, sure, there are always close moments out there; hanging over the cliff edge, stuck in space on low O2, trapped in a mine with no simple way out. Their job is never easy, but they don't expect it to be and if anything, Alan _likes_ the way "_dangerous_" rings in his throat. Still, he knows that no matter what, despite whatever odds are thrown their way, at the end of the day his four big brothers will _always_ be there for him to lean on when he limps back home.

…

_Freckles_

As the ginger, pale-skinned Tracy, John gets super_ freckly_ whenever he comes down from Five and spends long periods of time in the sun. His brothers tease the hell out of him for it, but John doesn't really mind.

…

_"__John - does it ever get boring up there?" - Anon_

"Umm, well, you'd be surprised. I know sitting up in space alone wouldn't appeal to most people, but I find it pretty easy to keep busy.

When there's no rescue calls coming in I mostly work on my research - studying the stars. I trained as an astronomer as well as an astronaut, and last year I completed and published my fourth book and made the discovery of the LucilleX10-37; a beautiful red dwarf star in the Tracy quasar system. Being up on Five really gives me an amazing advantage! I'm currently liaising with NASA and the Hubble Space telescope to provide data for an astronomy paper about exo-asteroid debris fields in the Flame Nebula (the _NGC 2024_), which is a spectacular emission nebula that surrounds a cluster of some 800 newly formed stars and… oh, sorry, I'm doing it _again_, aren't I? Gordon calls it _rambling techo-space babble_ and says it's one of my worst habits…

When I'm not researching, I'm reading space fiction. Scott calls it predicable; I call it relaxing. I'm half way through my fourth re-read of Buzz Aldrin's _Mission to Mars_, and I really enjoy old _Star Trek_ novels and almost all of Jule Verne's works. I know, full well, I can get whatever e-books I want digitally on Five's systems, but I just think there's something special about having a real old book in your hands. I go old bookstore raiding with Virgil whenever I'm home. He's in it for the artistic literature and the old sheet music. I'm in it for the sci-fi novels.

Speaking of Virgil, my brothers are all always only a phone call away - they keep in contact regularly. That said, sometimes rotation never seems long enough; especially when it keeps me away from Gordon's pranks! I'm the only one he's yet to push in the pool, and I'm keeping it that way!

I'm good at keeping in touch with my old Harvard friends too; the old crowd from the Laser Communication's course especially, and while I'm a little jealous of their lives in their constant updates, I wouldn't exchange being on Five for the world. I've also got fitness routines to take up my time; as an astronaut it's very difficult to maintain muscle mass and bone density, and that results in hours on the treadmill, which are tedious, but necessary.

Oh and if I'm still bored after all of that, there are always re-runs of my favorite shows! As you can imagine, I get an amazing TV signal from up here."

…

_Photo_

Jeff Tracy has an awful, awkward teenage photo of himself; one he'd sworn never to show the boys but Grandma apparently keeps a copy in her handbag amongst the boiled sweets and is it even murder if they're over the age of sixty and showing your sons your bad life decisions?

…

_Tea_

John has developed a tea addiction and it was all Lady P's fault. She'd begun it all by inviting him to sit with her, as she took her early morning tea; English Breakfast with dainty biscuits and continental pastries. Then John had started joining her regularly, and then, pretty soon he'd renounced decaf coffee and turned to the British side of hot beverages. Penelope was so proud.

Alan hadn't helped it; his youngest brother had bought a new mug, on his last birthday and it's HUGE and fantastic and has rockets and stars all over it and is now his favorite because it holds a whole _pint _of tea in one go. He's got 17 different types of tea in the 'tea cupboard' up on Five and his brothers are forever complaining about how much space loose leaf takes up, as they try to store their instant coffee between the boxes. His favorite is vanilla chai because it tastes like cinnamon and heaven and it was the first tea Lady P. ever brought him over from England, all of his very own in its little Harrods box.

John is currently curled up in his favorite reading corner, a book open in his lap and the mug balanced on one of his knees, its heat warm and reassuring as he turns the pages, scouring the text. The t-shirt he's got on was his Dad's from his NASA days and it's soft and comfy and he wears it _way_ too much and his whole posture is gently relaxed, slumping against the wall behind. He takes a sip of his newest Assam; a soft, hazelnutty blend with subtitle hints of chocolate through it and smiles at something on one of the pages.


End file.
